


Ecstasy

by placidings



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Edging, Frottage, M/M, Nipple Play, Porn with Feelings, Porn with a lot of feelings, Smut, and by extension clayton cubitt, and hysterical literature, basilio is not immune to his random poetic spiels, isagani tends to get adventurous, mildly kinky, special shoutout to nick joaquin, weirdos in love honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: ecstasynoun  ec·sta·sy  \ ˈek-stə-sē \a state of being beyond reason and self-control





	Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: all lines in **bold** are excerpts from Nick Joaquin's [The Summer Solstice](http://malacanang.gov.ph/75510-the-summer-solstice-by-nick-joaquin/) which blew my 11th grader mind back then. I love it still. It's worth the read, ya'll.

“I have an idea.”

Isagani has that look on his face, the a-lightbulb-just-went-off-in-my-head look that usually precedes something either disturbingly bizarre or delightfully brilliant. With him, there’s no telling which one it is unless Basilio lets him take him by the hand to show him where he’s going with that head of his this time. It’s not like he has to drag him kicking and screaming, anyway—Isagani’s excited grins and the way he seems to vibrate in his seat from the adrenalin rush is adorable for someone who’s had their enthusiasm for life siphoned out of them at the ripe, young age of 23. It’s his thing, the excitement for the strange and the unorthodox, and even though he and Basilio think on opposing ends of the spectrum most of the time (that is, whether the thing Isagani’s hyped up about now is worth doing and will not cause any major accidents whatsoever), Basilio will follow him in one way or another. Always. 

(Besides, even if he didn’t, Isagani would go ahead and do it. The stubbornness and the penchant for weird trains of thought that lead to even weirder actions have already existed in him even before Basilio met him, something he willingly accepted the moment he said yes. Sometimes he doesn’t get it, the same way Isagani doesn’t get medical jargon or chemistry. He doesn’t pretend to understand when he doesn’t. Sometimes Isagani is content with just having someone to talk to about it, and Basilio is more than willing to listen.) 

“Mhm,” Basilio hums, pausing in the middle of rummaging through his Xerox-copied handouts. It’s three AM on a Friday night and they’re both up late trying to clear the pile of papers the last semester (or, in Basilio’s case, the last year of Med School) left them with—Isagani with reams upon reams of readings, Basilio with a seemingly infinite number of reference materials of varying forms from his review sessions—and he vaguely remembers Isagani mentioning that there’s something about the late hours that just jumpstart his brain or something. It could be caffeine, the silence, or whatever; either way, he just works and thinks the best after 12 am. Basilio shouldn’t have anything to fear, it’s the post-4 hours of sleep ideas that’s mildly questionable, but something in the way Isagani’s flushing is slightly suspicious. 

“I, uh—“ Isagani clears his throat, as if to swallow the flicker of bashfulness that materialized on his face for a fraction of a second. “I found this thing online, and it’s going to sound pretty weird, but it was an art piece by a filmmaker overseas; wherein women read passages from books. It’s set in black and white and all that artsy stuff, but here’s the catch—under the table is a vibrator—“

At this point, Basilio drops his handouts onto its stack with a faint thud ( _he can’t possibly have bought a sex toy now, can he?_ ). Isagani flinches yet plows on, undeterred. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are bright red and he’s using his hands excessively as he talks (which he only ever does when he’s excited and/or nervous about something).

“—and you see how they lose control slowly, how their voices change pitch, how their fingers tremble as they try to keep their grip on themselves. It’s uh—it’s easily the most interesting, actually the prettiest thing I’ve seen, and—I wanted to… try it?” 

Basilio opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinks at him. Across the sea of papers, Isagani blinks back at him, patiently waiting him out even though the static, stagnant silence that’s stretching out between the two of them has him nibbling on his lip; one of his nervous tics. For a moment, Basilio considers saying no, not this time, he’s way too hopped up on his attachment to his previous readings—but then the thought of either one of them on edge and the other making the other lose their composure is, indeed, sexy as hell, he must admit. 

He wouldn’t mind being the receiver or the giver, in all honesty. His mouth beats him to it.

“Okay,” Basilio says slowly; swallowing the nervous chuckle rising up his throat. At the very least, it’s tame. And maybe, just a little bit nerdy. Very _Isagani_. “Okay. Like, right now?”

“Yeah. Right now. If you want to.”

“Okay.” 

Isagani looks like someone socked him square in the face. “What?” 

“Okay.” 

“As in, _okay_ okay? Or _okay_ as in—” 

“ _Okay_ , Gani, let’s do it,” Basilio sighs, rolling his eyes fondly. Isagani does not answer for a full fifteen seconds; then he shifts from surprise to _something else_ —the way he _looks_ at him changes, like he’s trying to imagine all the things he could do to him; like he’s trying to figure out the best way to make him come undone. It’s indescribable. It sends shivers of anticipation running up and down his spine, makes him want to kiss him stupid (or, let him kiss _him_ stupid, whichever comes first). He is weak. Absolutely weak for this Isagani—and then his face breaks into the dopiest, warmest smile Basilio has ever seen. 

“Really? You’d do that for me?” 

How he changes from sweet to sexy in a matter of seconds is a mystery, but Basilio would be lying if he said that the grin on his face doesn’t make his heart dance the Tinikling in his gut. 

“Yes. Okay, _yes_ , I would,” He snorts at Isagani’s positively lovestruck face, notes the way his eyes follow him as he walks around the table to sit on it, right in front of him. “But I _wil_ l change my mind if you ask me one more damn time.” 

Isagani snaps out from his trance and scoots his chair back; tugs at his wrist, his hands coming around his waist as Basilio sits on his lap. 

“God, you’re the best,” He says, tilting his head up to press his lips to his chin. “You do the reading.” 

“Of course. Should’ve known. Why do _I_ have to do the reading?” 

“ _Because_ ,” He insists. He licks his lip and smiles; that boyish, handsome smile that he has reserved for him and him only. He’s confident now, slightly cocky, knowing he has Basilio where he wants him. “Your voice is perfect for this, you tell me all the time I have a voice made to sway, made to persuade, made to make people listen, but there’s you; with that smooth, deep baritone, quiet, but unbelievably powerful in your ability to pacify, to comfort, to soothe. Your composure is unbreakable, you—steady and unyielding, and for once, maybe, just maybe—” 

Isagani leans in close, his lips brush the shell of his ear. “—I want to see you lose control.”

When he pulls away he’s wearing the most self-satisfied look Basilio has ever seen on him: the embers in his eyes are alight with a sense of arousal and the vaguest hint of a challenge, and damn it all to hell if Basilio denies wanting to kiss that look off his face. The asshole knows exactly what’s he’s doing to him, knows he’s a sucker for his sweet talk, knows it’s going to set him off. 

(This is a side of Isagani that’s rarely ever awake, and with good reason: if this were a constant, Basilio would be lying six feet under the ground. He’s lethal, absolutely fucking deadly when he wants to be, and if looks could kill he would’ve instantly dropped dead the moment he fixed that look on him.) 

He hates that it’s fucking working, Isagani’s silver tongue. He has absolutely no right to judge him for the mildly kinky shit he wants to try, because here he is; hyperaware of his large hands on his comparatively smaller waist and both of their erections growing by the minute, inching closer and closer to contact. _His_ case is aggravated by the way his voice curls around his words, how he knows exactly what to say, how he _knows_ he’s weak for this. Weak for him, in general, but mostly, it’s the purple prose and pretty poetry that just hits all of his damn buttons. 

“You are such a nerd,” Basilio murmurs, pulling him in close as he cards his fingers through his hair. “Who the hell gets all poetic before fucking someone’s brains out?” 

“I do. And you like it.”

He sighs in near-exasperation. He _does_ like it. Quite a lot, actually, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to give Isagani the satisfaction of knowing he has him where he wants him so damn easily. “Mhm, sure. And _you_ like it when _I_ swear, so really, who’s winning here?” 

Isagani laughs. The asshole laughs, all sweet and fond and genuinely amused at the sudden show of vulgarity; as if he wasn’t just teasing him ten seconds ago. It’s light and mildly disorienting. It sends Basilio’s heart asunder, and it’s frustrating, just a little bit— _who the hell does that_? 

“ _What_ is wrong with you,” He groans, lightly socking Isagani on the chest. “You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?” 

“That. Giving me a boner and looking like a fucking Disney prince while laughing just ten seconds after. That’s confusing. That should be illegal.” 

Isagani raises an eyebrow, tilts his head a little to the left. “What would you rather have me do?”

Basilio rolls his eyes, Isagani snorts. “I would rather have you get on with it. Now. What do you want me to read? Should I read one of your poems? Wait, no, I can recite them from  
memory—“ 

“No!” He cries, almost dislodging Basilio from his perch. He belatedly realizes that mentioning his writing is going to send him spiraling into a flustered mess, regardless of the circumstances. “My poems aren’t made for that! I mean, I love you, thank you for the undying support, but no. Not mine. Those are going to be performed in one way or another and I’d really rather not have myself with a boner remembering what we did while you read that poem. I mean, I’d love to, but I—god, why would you say that, my dick has never been this flaccid—“ 

Basilio half-groans, half-laughs; then he pushes his hips against his in a slow grind, effectively cutting off both Isagani’s spiel _and_ anything else he was thinking before that—now he’s fully hard, and the contact is _amazing_ , sending electricity zipping through his veins. He gasps: Isagani’s eyes drop closed, his mouth falls open in a silent cry, his hands tighten around him, his hips jump ever-so-slightly beneath him. Basilio thinks he understands now: he’s gorgeous, handsome like this, and the way he peels his eyes open and blinks slowly at him as he drags himself back down from the momentary high is a thing of beauty.

If he could paint or write, he would do everything in his power to immortalize that face. But he can’t, he has never been blessed with a talent in the arts, and the only thing Basilio could do is to stare at it for as long as it’s there. He’s going to see it in his dreams one of these days, but he can’t complain. The world has gifted him with a sight only _he_ can see. 

“Right. Okay.” Isagani says after a couple of seconds just staring blankly at him. His voice is rough; sounds like the way his teeth feels on his neck. “That was a foul.”

“I can’t have your dick flaccid. That’s just unfair. We suffer together.” 

Isagani shakes his head and reaches out for a book that is half-buried underneath a solid ream of cases—Basilio recognizes it as Isagani’s favorite book, a collection of Nick Joaquin’s works, an anthology entitled _Tales of the Tropical Gothic_ or something. It’s relatively out of place where it is, yet very _fitting_ —it’s a nifty little thing; well-worn and thumbed through, yellowing pages riddled with Isagani’s trademark, writer-fanboy-scrawl, page corners folded where one of his favourite lines or titles appear; a free, bright, and beautiful world sandwiched in between the rigidity of the law he’s supposed to be studying. Again, it’s another little thing that makes Isagani _Isagani_. It’s frustratingly endearing. 

Basilio nuzzles his face into his hair to tamp the urge to kiss him; inhales the clean scent of his shampoo. He presses his lips there and feels Isagani pause. Shift slightly. Trail kisses down the column of his throat. Basilio hums his assent. There is the pinch of teeth, the slide of his tongue, the ghost of a warm breath on his skin. Tasting. Marking. Isagani is reverent with his mouth and obeisant with his hands—hand, rather. One holds his waist in a gentle grasp while the other is struggling to keep its hold on the book. 

Right, the book in question. Basilio lets Isagani put his lips on every patch of skin he can reach before he asks, “What’s that doing there?”

Isagani presses one last kiss to his collarbone. It takes him a moment to answer, and when Basilio pulls away and tilts his gaze downwards to meet his, it’s as though he’s struggling to make sense of the situation at hand—his eyes are dazed and glassy; he’s drunk off him, and Basilio is high on the lingering sparks his mouth left thrumming under his skin. He watches as the fog slowly clears and the embers in Isagani’s eyes crackle to life. 

“Mm? Oh, I read this to de-stress. There’s just something about Joaquin’s manner of illustrating settings and scenarios that’s just ethereal and otherworldly. Some of it is, indeed, difficult to read—did you know that the first sentence of May Day Eve is an entire paragraph in itself that set up the setting of the story—anyway, it’s easy to get lost in it, and I was thinking,” His voice drops, as if he wasn’t just waxing literary, and this is how Basilio knows he’s getting to the point. “Of how erotic The Summer Solstice actually is, and then I remembered that project, which brings us here.” 

“The Summer Solstice,” Basilio agrees—he hasn’t read it, but with the sheer amount of times Isagani has talked his ear off about it, he may as well have. “The Tadtarin. ‘She is the wife of he moon.’ Heat everywhere. One of your favorites.” 

“Yes, exactly. Heat everywhere. One of my favorites. I’m entrusting it to you and your lovely voice.”

The small smile on his face is anything but innocent: it’s another one of his looks that spells trouble, that he has something vaguely devious hidden in his sleeves. Basilio does not feel fear this time, just quiet acceptance and heady anticipation—he could never make it out of this without breaking, shattering into a thousand pieces, only to be reborn again. 

(Not that he minds—this is a welcome distraction, and he knows he’s in good hands.) 

And so, he clears his throat and starts to read. 

**“The Moretas were spending St. John’s Day with the children’s grandfather, whose feast day it was. Doña Lupeng awoke feeling faint with the heat…”**

It starts with his hands—nothing but feather-light grazes over his clothes, tracing every line, every dip, every crevice of his body; as though he were attempting to memorize each and every part of him, to leave no patch of skin untouched. His muscles draw tight, pull taut at the anticipation, at the burning need for just a little bit more: a little bit more to the right, down there, to the left, down south; a little more skin, a little more pressure. Isagani makes it a point to avoid his erogenous zones—it’s distracting because the longer Isagani runs the pads of his fingers over his skin without touching him there the more he inches closer to losing it the way Amada did, but Basilio tries his best to ignore it; focuses on the text. It’s easy to get lost in the hot, humid air of the Moreta household; he is slowly being dragged in by the spell of his own storytelling—and then, Isagani slips his hands underneath his shirt. Warm, large, slightly rough palms skirting up the length of his back; fingers sliding down the indent of his spine. One, two, three, four, Basilio’s breath catches in his throat as goosebumps rise on his flesh. Isagani hums in interest. Basilio hazards a glance at his face from over the edge of the book, and what he finds is pure, unadulterated awe etched in his agape lips, his clouded eyes, his flushed skin. Beautiful, he mouths, as though in a trance. 

Basilio stutters, caught off-guard. “ **Thei—their teeth flashed white in their laughing faces and their hot bodies glowed crimson as they pranced past, shrouded in fiery dust…** ”

Isagani’s touch drops down to his hips, and the pressure is too much too soon; drawing an involuntary gasp from his lips, interrupting his train of prose. He clenches his jaw as Isagani presses his thumbs along his abdomen where his ribs are, inching closer and closer to—his breath hitches in his throat as Isagani grazes his nipples ever-so-slightly, barely there but not quite both at the same time. Basilio pays no heed to the beginnings of a smirk curving at Isagani’s lips; his pace picking up speed, “ **…the Lord of Light and Heat—erect and godly virile above the prone and female earth—while the worshippers danced and the dust thickened and the animals reared and roared and the merciless fires came raining down from the skies—** “

A hiss slips itself out of Basilio’s teeth as Isagani thumbs his nipples, sending jolts of sensation right down to his crotch. He jerks in his seat, his hips bucking against Isagani’s on instinct—he whimpers at the contact, at his rock-hard erection pressing up against his own. There is the beginnings of the telltale heat of arousal pooling in his gut and flooding his limbs and he wants to chase it, chase it until everything bursts out of him, until Isagani brings him over the edge with those blessed hands of his. Basilio struggles to keep his composure as Isagani plays with him, much more insistent; he pinches them, tugs at them gently, rolls them between his fingers; rendering the little nubs oversensitive. Basilio is panting, his voice is shaking, his hands are—what escapes his lips is more surprised and blissed-out ah’s rather than prose. This is new: he never thought he could make him come like this, but then he stops reading to make way for his keening, as he pulls and pinches harder; as his hips seem to move of their own accord, rutting against Isagani’s own arousal. He grunts, pinching his nipples even harder, _that’s it, babe, harder please, I’m almost_ —then Isagani pulls away, takes his hand out of his shirt. Lets him breathe, come down from his high. 

Basilio grits his teeth in an attempt to suppress his frustration. When he hazards a look at Isagani, he’s red in the face, breathing heavy, and looking right back at him _expectantly_ , like he didn’t just build him up to let him crash.

“ **The heat had not subsided. It was heat without gradations: that knew no twilights and no dawns; that was still there** ,” Basilio pauses, releases a breath, wills himself to stop panting. “ **After the sun had set; that would be there already, before the sun had risen.** ”

Apparently, he isn’t finished—pleasure knocks the wind out of Basilio’s lungs as Isagani begins teasing his overstimulated nipples right over his shirt—he draws circles around the hardened nub, enough just to tickle. His breath hitches in his throat; the words lodging themselves in his airway. Basilio’s head is swimming at Isagani’s caresses, and he just wants—needs—his tongue where his fingers are—

“ **But maybe we do not want to be loved and respected—but to be a** —ah, Gani—“ His grip on the book shakes as his orgasm builds high and fast in his gut. Basilio clings to Isagani’s shoulder; his eyes dropping closed and his mouth falling open in a soundless moan as he continues stroking his nipples, teasing it with a single finger; the coarse cotton amplifying the sensation. “ _Fuck_ —yes, _Gani_ , don’t—“ 

And just like that, it’s over—Isagani withdraws his hands again, letting them rest on his ass this time. Basilio releases a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes. He stares at him, mildly incensed; book pressed right between their bodies where he had dropped it at one point. Isagani only looks vaguely apologetic. He glances down south, where their clothed erections are pressed flush, and notes, with satisfaction, that he isn’t the only one with the boxers damp with pre-come. Beads of sweat gather on their forehead; their chests rise as they pant, almost in-sync; the air is hot and heavy and downright electric—a single touch could set them both off. 

Basilio knows that much. It isn’t exactly hidden anywhere in Isagani’s face either: his eyes are wide and owlish and looking at him like he was the only person who existed in his world; a flush sits high on his cheekbones, across the bridge of his nose, down his neck (purple would look so pretty there, he thinks); his lips are red and ajar, bearing indents from where he had sunk his teeth in. Beautifully, wonderfully debauched. 

He huffs, disgruntled, but he reads nonetheless. Basilio knows he sounds breathless now, his words practically slurring together in a messy trail, close to incoherent—but he can’t help it. Isagani’s grip on his flesh is hard and tight and bruising as he pushes him forward, ever-so-slightly; kneading his ass, and Basilio whimpers, helpless, desperate for skin. Isagani grunts at the friction; stifles his pants by pressing his mouth to his shoulder. 

He swallows in an attempt to quench his parched tongue. “ **Yes, the heat has touched you in the head** —oh _fuck_ , Gani—“

Basilio clenches his jaw to suppress the moan rising from his throat as Isagani palms his hardness through his boxers. He begins rutting into his touch; shifting so he can hold the book behind his head so Isagani can freely bury his face into the crook of his neck. 

“Keep reading, babe,” Isagani murmurs into his skin; voice deep and rough and husky. Basilio’s toes curl of their own accord. 

“I—“ Basilio struggles to keep himself together, the urge to come then and there raging strong. Isagani stops stroking him, just leaves his hand lying flat on his clothed dick. “—fuck. _Fuck_ , fine; **the cult of the Tadtarin is celebrated on three days: the feast of St. John and the two preceding days.** ”

He gets it now: Isagani stops whenever he stops reading—the asshole—like it isn’t his fault he’s distracted and horny as hell. It’s working. Basilio would hate to admit it, but something about having his climax snatched away time and time again has him thrumming with sensitivity all over; his arousal slowly being the only thing occupying his thoughts. It’s hot, so damn hot, he has never had it with him like this. He’s close to flames, his pulse is beating a bruise into his ribcage, breath does not come easy, and he just wants Isagani to touch him _there_ , with no inhibitions or barriers of cloth separating his skin from his. Basilio is slowly losing his patience over the continued teasing, and it shows: he’s tearing through the sentences with a frantic speed, paying no heed to the downright erotic scene painted with words, just Isagani and his blessed hands making quick work of him, massaging him, and oh, _oh_ ; just as he says “ **she was watching greedily, taut and breathless, her head thrust forward and her eyes bulging, the teeth bared in the slack mouth, and the sweat gleaming on her face,** ” Isagani reaches into his shorts and finally, finally takes him in his hands. He almost falls apart then and there, but no, he can’t, not when it’s getting so, so good; he doesn’t want Isagani to stop, so he plows on, despite the breathy, whiny desperation leaching into the words that spill from his mouth. 

Isagani drags his hand up and down in a pace too slow and a grip too loose for Basilio’s comfort. He’s doing this to tease him, he’s damn sure because Isagani knows him like the back of his hand now, and he knows Basilio wants it hard and fast and _breathtaking_. He pauses for a moment, glares at him from over the book—Isagani only fucking winks as he draws his hand back—only to lick a long stripe down his palm. 

Basilio stares, the breath knocked out of his lungs and all sense from his brain disintegrating in one fell swoop. When he speaks, his voice shakes on the fringes. “‘ **Is it not enough that you have me helpless? Is it not enough that I feel what you want me to feel?** ’”

“No,” Isagani mouths. He’s gripping him firmly now, stroking his dick at a faster pace. Basilio could hardly hold the book in his hands; he is weak, consumed by his arousal, desperate for a release. He tries to keep going, he honestly does, but then there is the slick hardness of Isagani’s own cock against his, rubbing together as he jerks them off with one hand—Basilio is gone, gone, _gone_. 

“ **That I adore you. That I ad—adore you** , fuck it, Isagani,” He drops the book to the floor, pulls away, and braces himself on his shoulders, grip bruising and tight. “If you fucking stop now—“ 

Isagani surges forward and cuts him off with a kiss. He slots their mouths together, not bothering with niceties or formalities as he prods his tongue with his own, as he moans into his mouth. Basilio wraps his arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, as he chases the pressure slowly building behind his balls; he pulls away only to mouth a breathy _yes, yes, that’s it_ against his ajar lips. He can hardly keep his eyes open; spots dance behind his closed eyelids and nothing but breathless, delighted cries escape his lips; spit and vulgarity drip off his tongue, something Isagani welcomes with the same fervor as his. He sinks his teeth into his lip and Basilio jumps in surprise, groans low and deep in his throat as Isagani soothes the pain by sucking on it right before he pulls away. This is it, the peak of ecstasy: his fingers tangled into Isagani’s hair as he pulls away to trail bruising kisses down the side of his throat, Isagani gripping him at the hip securely while his other hand strokes the both of them, his hardness flush against his, and it’s too much, too much to handle at one time, too much, too hot, too scalding—he’s panting, whimpering, moaning, climbing to his peak with unprecedented speed and it’s too fast, much like whiplash from the slow, agonizing pace Isagani built—then he goes numb. 

Blank. His orgasm rips through him, stripping him senseless. He falls onto Isagani’s shoulder and buries his face there as he shakes violently; muffling his whines with his flesh. There is a sudden, blunt pain on the crook of his neck, but he pays no heed to it—just nuzzles his face into his skin as he strokes them out, until they both stop trembling from the sheer force of their orgasm. 

When the static whine of his consciousness ebbs, he registers Isagani patiently trailing soft kisses to soothe the sting of where he bit him (it’s going to leave a sizeable hickey in the morning, that’s for sure, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he got a mind-numbing orgasm in the process); hands holding him tight and steady against his own body. 

“You’re beautiful,” Isagani whispers as he leans back into his chair; pressing his lips to his temple. He cards his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair gently. “Absolutely stunning.” 

Basilio hums, sleep slowly dragging him down under. “I better be. You have no idea how hard that was— _I_ was.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. Just—listen, I don’t mean to objectify you or anything, but that was amazing. Eyes squeezed shut, entire body trembling, mouth red and well-kissed and agape… That was you, love. I could make an entire poem out of it.” 

“Perfect. Then _you_ can read it to me while _I_ suck you off. Payback.”

With great effort, Basilio peels his eyes open and pushes himself up. Everything he looks at is blurry, leaving him confused until Isagani slips his glasses back onto his face—he doesn’t remember taking it off himself; Isagani must have pulled it off him just before Basilio blanked out. 

“Okay, sure. Anything for you.” Isagani grins and kisses him gently. He bunches his shirt in his free hand, and that’s when Basilio realizes what he’s doing: cleaning his cum-soaked hand. On _his_ shirt. He pulls away, mildly miffed. “Ew, gross. I planned to sleep in this shirt, thank you very much.” 

“You can sleep in one of mine. You like it better anyway.”

“As long as you’re taking care of me. I don’t want to move. That was on an entirely different level, mahal. I thought I was dead for a moment.” 

He laughs, unabashed. Fond. It echoes in the silence of their shared room. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t get too cocky now.”

“When have I ever? I’m only blessed with the privilege of knowing you like this. Knowing you makes it easier. I’m probably gonna be not that good with other people—not that I want to be. I’m pretty sure this is it. You’re it.”

“You’re going to kill me one day,” Basilio deadpans, reveling in the bright, effervescent grin Isagani graces him with. “Through an orgasm or through your cheesiness. I don’t know. Either way is a good way to go, though.” 

“How will I ever be able to forgive myself then? How will I ever explain to my uncle that I accidentally indirectly killed you because you forgot how to breathe after you came?” 

“Not my problem. Your fault.” 

“You are lucky you’re so damn gorgeous,” Isagani kisses him then, lips still curved into a smile. When he pulls away, he stares at him openly; the biggest, goofiest smile on his face. Handsome, with his mussed-up hair and his kiss-swollen lips and his flushed skin; looking at him with nothing but love and adoration. Unconsciously, Basilio begins to mirror his grin—it’s so damn stupid. He wishes he could say he hates it. 

(He could never. Isagani has a heart that’s too big for his chest and too strong for his own good, and he loves him with the entirety of it. Basilio, after everything he’s been through, can only call himself blessed.)

He says it first, anyway. “I love you.” 

It’s Isagani’s turn to flush, to melt into putty. The logical side of Basilio’s brain is kicking in and they both make a sight for sore eyes with the exposed genitalia, but he tucks it away in a corner of his mind. Not until the moment’s over. 

When he speaks, his voice is a low whisper—he says it like the sincerest of prayers, looks at him like the world could end right then and there but nothing else would matter but him. “I love you. So much.”

Basilio’s mind truly blanks out—he’s no poet, he’s not equipped with the skill and the vocabulary to translate this moment into words, but it’s the warmth in his chest, the person sitting right in front of him (under him, to be exact) that matters. 

That’s enough for him.

“I know,” he says, equally soft, as he presses his forehead against his. “Now come _on_ , I want to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so the thing Isagani wanted to imitate is an actual thing, and it's called [hysterical literature](http://hystericalliterature.com) by Clayton Cubitt. Basically, Isagani already told ya'll how it works, but, according to the website (which u can check out, i linked it there) "It explores feminism, mind/body dualism, distraction portraiture, and the contrast between culture and sexuality." It's one of the most groundbreaking, earth-shattering things I have found on the internet. If u guys decide to check it out, I personally recommend Stoya, Danielle, and Fette :--)
> 
> (read Stoya's, Danielle's, and Solè's essays, too.)
> 
> Again, all lines in **bold** are excerpts from Nick Joaquin's [The Summer Solstice](http://malacanang.gov.ph/75510-the-summer-solstice-by-nick-joaquin/).
> 
> I just got the feeling it would be something Isagani would do so... here we are. And I talked to Ren about this: how Isagani has his moments where he starts waxing poetic out of nowhere, and Basilio never gets tired of it, in fact, it makes him feel... things. It's a fun headcanon.
> 
> Plus, if they ever start sounding ooc I understand, I just figured they were bros before they were boyfs, so that means theyve been exposed to each other's brand of bullshit for the longest time now, and therefore are the best people who can tolerate each other... that being said, i wanted to explore their dynamic, i guess. these two are smart, quick-witted--who's to say they don't out-snark each other? That they dont get tired of the other's shit sometimes?
> 
> But enough with the chit-chat. Can ya'll believe _this_ is the project I enjoyed the most over my 4-month summer? I can't. Anyway, thank you for reading, and feel free to hmu on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/Iakambini)


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